


pilgrimage

by prowlish



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alcohol, Bickering, Episode Related, Feel-good, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Homecoming, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Reunions, Romance, Sappy, Sappy Ending, Self-Indulgent, Sneaking Around, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 10:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14235399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlish/pseuds/prowlish
Summary: A journey in seven parts, centered around different kisses at different stages.





	pilgrimage

**Author's Note:**

> This baby helped keep me on track for the first week of camp nano because I COULDN'T STOP WRITING IT.
> 
> It was very fun. And extremely indulgent. Hope you enjoy it too!
> 
> >>Light and kinda vague spoilers for the Mutineer's Trilogy in Lost Light in the very last segment.

_[first kiss]_

 

After Delphi, Drift kept making excuses to stop by the medibay. It wasn’t like before, when he would drop in so he could enlighten the medic on his latest spiritual revelations; this was all accidentally-on-purpose — Magnus wants a report of this, I over-extended my joints sparring that…

 

Nonsense. That’s what it really was.

 

Ratchet didn’t say anything about it for a long time. He was interested to see when Drift would run out of excuses.  Perhaps when he did it would include a clue as to what this was all about. Plus… Drift had, in the past, been a notoriously difficult patient. One of those who ducked his appointments and was conveniently  difficult to reach when one came up. This new, compliant mech had an agenda, but Ratchet didn’t mind _that_ much since he now sat still for examinations.

 

Today, though, he was barely doing that. Drift kept fidgeting and the restless motion interfered with at least two of his scanners. Ratchet sighed. “Drift.”

 

Drift sat straight and still. “Sorry?” he said, sheepish.

 

Ratchet grunted. “Why are you here?”

 

Drift blinked. He lifted an arm, which was still attached to one of the diagnostics. “I thought that was apparent,” he said.

 

Ratchet arched an optic ridge. Drift clearly thought his smile was winning, but Ratchet thought he was just being an idiot again. “Yeah,” Ratchet said. “Usually when I call you for a routine check-up, you’re quite scarce. You all but volunteered this time.” Ratchet peered at the readout on that particular diagnostic and hummed, eventually disconnecting it from the port on Drift’s arm. “In fact, I’ve been practically tripping over you the past few weeks. As our eloquent human friends would say: what gives?”

 

Ratchet was busy packing that scanner away, but Drift stayed so quiet and still for so long that he started to get concerned. He placed it aside and peered back up at the swordsmech perched on the medberth; Drift was gazing at him, his expression unreadable.

 

Ratchet frowned, lifting one still freshly painted hand and waving it in Drift’s field of vision. “Uh — you okay, kid?”

 

Instead of answering, Drift reached out and gently grasped Ratchet’s wrist. Surprised, Ratchet sputtered — but he wound up speechless for a few spark-racing moments as Drift tugged him closer. Before any other questions or demands could fly from Ratchet’s lips, Drift tilted his helm and spoke. “I guess my excuses have gotten pretty transparent, huh?”

 

Ratchet rolled his optics, but as dismissive as he acted, neither did he pull himself away from Drift. “Yeah,” he said flatly. “See-through like Mirage.”

 

Drift snorted, a smile playing over his lips. “I suppose the simplest answer is that I wanted to be around you,” he replied.

 

The medic pursed his lips. “Sure,” he said. “But that doesn’t tell me _why_.”

 

Drift shook his helm. “Do I have to spell it out?”

 

Ratchet set his jaw. “Yes.”

 

The way Drift managed to look smug and innocently delighted at once was irresistible. Ratchet hated it. “Careful what you wish for,” he teased. Before Ratchet could bite off a retort to that, Drift tugged him closer and pulled him into a kiss.

 

Ratchet wasn’t sure if he should be surprised, but he _was_ surprised by how soft and seeking it was. Most surprising was how enthusiastic Ratchet found his own response. He didn’t escalate it any, other than slipping an arm around Drift’s waist and letting the mech lace their fingers together.

 

The medic blinked when they pulled apart; it had only lasted a moment but it felt like so much longer.

 

Drift smiled that infuriating smile at him again, although this close up Ratchet had trouble feeling antagonistic about it. “How unruffled you are!” he teased.

 

Ratchet rolled his optics, scoffing. “You don’t get to be my age by being taken by surprise all the time,” he quipped.

 

Drift snorted, but he did worm in another kiss or two until Ratchet finally waved him off to complete the check-up. The last thing he wanted was for First Aid to walk in on him snogging Drift in the middle of the fragging medibay while on shift.

 

The way Drift grinned about that spelled much more vying for his attention in the future, he was sure.

 

 

_[sneaking kisses]_

 

Something about sneaking around — or, at least, the appearance of it — made his spark burble like an excited youngling. Ambulon was dragging First Aid away from the medibay as he approached and Drift swore that, despite his face being completely covered, First Aid cast a canny look his way.

 

Talk had surrounded himself and Ratchet since the _Lost Light_ launched, so Drift only expected more when the time he spent in and around the medibay only increased. He still didn’t know First Aid all that well, but he got the impression that the nurse had encouraged a few of the more salacious rumors regarding the two of them.

 

Of course, he neither confirmed nor denied anything, which surely encouraged more glossas in their wagging. Drift smiled. Avoiding gossip on the ship took active effort; he’d long accepted that.

 

Slipping into an empty medibay to approach Ratchet and feel the welcoming warmth of his field spiraling out in greeting — that, he wasn’t sure if he could get used to. But he would certainly come back every day to try.

 

“Drift,” Ratchet sighed, as Drift leaned down, resting his chin on Ratchet’s shoulder.

 

“What?” Drift’s hands slid from Ratchet’s shoulders down his arms.

 

“ _Working_ ,” he grumbled. He didn’t elbow him away and Drift smiled against his shoulder. All he was doing was sorting out surplus supplies — something that didn’t need _immediate_ attention.

 

Drift slipped his hands over Ratchet’s, eventually coaxing them away from medical equipment and into lacing their fingers together. Ratchet grumbled and huffed, but his field stayed warm and content against Drift’s frame. “There don’t seem to be any dire medical emergencies,” he remarked.

 

Ratchet snorted. “So?”

 

Drift turned him around, optics glinting as he smiled. “ _So_ … spare a little attention for me,” he said, hands now resting on Ratchet’s waist as he leaned in.

 

The medic quirked an optic ridge. “Well, clearly I’ll never know peace unless I do.”

 

Drift grinned. “Ah, you _can_ be taught new tricks,” he teased. Before Ratchet could retort, Drift kissed him, laughter bubbling up from his very spark.

 

That sound died down when he heard a noise at the door. Plating flared in alarm, Drift hauled Ratchet into the nearest storage closet before the medic could demand to know what he thought he was doing. By the time his vocalizer was working, it became apparent — they could First Aid’s voice in the medibay proper.

 

“— went? He said he was going to take care of the surplus.”

 

“Probably grabbed a drink at Swerve’s.” Ambulon’s voice in answer.

 

“That fast?” Shuffle. Clatter. “Surely he would’ve finished _this_ before stepping out.”

 

 _“Drift,_ ” Ratchet hissed. “They’re looking for me. What brilliant idea made you drag us in here?”

 

Drift scoffed. “ _You’re_ the one who’s always so jumpy about one of them walking in!”

 

“Well, maybe if you didn’t always interrupt my _work_ — ”

 

“You’re in here _all the time_! Or at Swerve’s!”

 

“You have a working comm system, don’t you?”

 

Drift almost snapped off another hushed reply, then paused and blinked. “Are you inviting me to invite you back to my hab?”

 

“Shut up.” Ratchet had grabbed an empty container from a lower shelf. “And stay in here for a minute.”

 

“What?”

 

Without explaining, Ratchet exited the closet. The door closed swiftly behind him, so all Drift could hear was Ratchet’s voice. “Back so soon?”

 

“...Were you in there the whole time?”

 

“Where else am I supposed to conjure extra containers?” he remarked. More shuffling sounds — Ratchet packing some of the items into the new container, no doubt. “Do you need something?”

 

There was a pause — perhaps First Aid casting another one of those hidden, canny looks at the closet door — but soon the trio began speaking about some kind of medical specifics and Drift quickly tuned out. He had other things on his mind…

 

After only a few moments, Ambulon and First Aid left again. Silence hung heavy for a while, and Drift had decided to poke his head out again when the door slid open and Ratchet scowled at him. He handed Drift a full container of wire strippings. “You’re an idiot.”

 

“Thanks,” Drift remarked, shoving the container onto a shelf. Before Ratchet could slip away again, Drift grabbed his wrist. “Hey.”

 

Ratchet frowned over his shoulder. “What?”

 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

 

The medic let out quite the long-suffering sigh, but he tugged Drift into a quick kiss, stolen before Drift could respond — or more medics could wander through the door. “Don’t they teach you patience with all that woo-woo crap?” he grunted.

 

Drift sighed. “It’s _not_ — ”

 

Ratchet shook his head as he slipped away. “The answer is yes, by the way.”

 

“What?”

 

The medic quirked an optic ridge as he went back to sorting the items splayed out on a circuit slab. Was he working at those faster than he had been before? “I hope your hab suite has better accommodations than a storage closet.”

 

Drift grinned as it all clicked into place. “Come on and find out then,” he murmured. And he was either seeing things, or Ratchet had hidden a smile by bowing his helm studiously over his work.

 

 

_[in too deep]_

 

Shore leave. Once upon a lifetime, Ratchet would jump at shore leave, particularly on the likes of Hedonia. But now, with the ship a lot quieter, a different idea of fun sprang to mind.

 

He was now at the point of inviting _himself_ to Drift’s hab suite, but he suspected Drift didn’t mind all that much. He knocked on the door, his other hand grasping the neck of a sealed decanter — proof that he wouldn't turn up empty-handed.

 

On the other side of the door, he could hear a muffled voice — clearer as Drift approached the door. “Swerve, I already told you — ” He stopped, clearly surprised at the actual identity of his caller, and then a smile bloomed on his features. It started on his lips, brightened his optics, and made Ratchet’s spark do a funny turn. “Ratchet,” he said warmly.

 

“I hope I’m not intruding upon you and Swerve,” Ratchet said drily.

 

“What — oh, no.” To Ratchet’s astonishment, he saw a flush touch Drift’s features. “That was — well, it’s not important.” He smiled again, stepping back. “Come in, won’t you?”

 

Ratchet wasted no time in following him. Bashfulness would do nothing for them at this stage of things. “I thought a night in while the ship was quiet might be nice. I mean, as long as no emergencies get called in.”

 

Drift snorted. “Right,” he said. “And what gifts have you borne?”

 

Ratchet lifted the decanter from his side. “Better engex than has ever graced Swerve’s bar,” he remarked. His spark pulsed triumphantly when Drift laughed. (When had that started happening?)

 

“And yet you still drink there.”

 

Ratchet shrugged. “No point in drying up all of _my_ stock so soon.”

 

The swordsmech smiled again and turned to retrieve a couple of glasses from the nearby cabinet. “And I should feel honored to partake with you?”

 

“You bet yer aft,” Ratchet remarked, snorting. Drift cut a look over his shoulder, mischief glittering in his optics, but despite the impish look he opted out of the low-hanging fruit of a reply. Bit of a shame — Drift’s aft was a _great_ topic of conversation.

 

Instead, Drift led them to the couch and sat, curling his legs beneath himself. The smile on his lips only broadened as Ratchet sat very close to him and held a hand out for the barware. For the second time, Ratchet thought about how there was no point in getting bashful. Apparently Drift agreed. He handed over the short glasses, watching Ratchet pour out the engex for them, accepting one back with thanks.

 

One might think they didn’t have a lot to talk about that wasn’t painful past or present disagreements, but they did manage — and they did both understand that some silences don't need filling up. Not when there was good drink and the warmth of intermingling fields and — slowly, eventually — Drift leaning his helm down to rest on Ratchet’s shoulder.

 

Kinda cute, Ratchet thought. But he kept that to himself.

 

After another few moments, Ratchet collected their empty glasses to place them out of the way next to the decanter. Drift lifted his helm to accommodate and was peering at Ratchet when the medic turned back around. He quirked an optic ridge. “What?”

 

Drift didn’t answer right away. But as if on cue, he leaned in to kiss Ratchet, hungry and tinged with the fire of his field. _Oh._ Well, Ratchet wouldn’t be arguing with this. He slipped an arm around the nip of Drift’s waist, encouraging his eagerness to put their frames flush and straddle his lap as their kiss only deepened.

 

Ratchet panted, his hands squeezing on Drift’s plating, hot air gushing from his vents as desire licked through his frame and field, equipment already stirring behind closed plating. The effect Drift had on him would be embarrassing except for that the knowledge that it was reciprocated.

 

They parted for a moment, only a few millimeters apart, mouths open and panting hot air to assist the efforts of their vents. The entirety of Ratchet’s vision was bright blue optics, half-shuttered but glowing like the hottest part of a flame.

 

The medic was struck dumb for several spark-stopping moments. This close optic contact, coupled with the intensity of their kiss and the total melding of their fields… it was like a wave crashing over him, letting him know just how far gone he was.

 

“Frag,” he murmured.

 

“What?” Drift’s optic ridges knit together.

 

Ratchet slipped his hands up Drift’s frame, running his glossa over his own lips. “Nothing,” he said, and pulled them together again. Might as well dive in completely.

 

 

_[goodbye]_

 

Drift knew that attending the funeral wouldn’t be appropriate, so here he sat in the corridor outside of the shuttle bay. Waiting. Considering the bulk of the crew were in the other room, it at least wasn’t awkward. All he would have to do was what he and Rodimus agreed on, and walk away.

 

It shouldn’t be hard. He’d left assignments under threat of more pain and danger than this, hadn’t he?

 

There was, of course, one mech he didn’t allow himself to think of because — he couldn’t.

 

Drift leaned his helm back against the wall, optics shuttered, waiting on Rodimus’s comm and trying only to think forward instead of what he would be leaving behind.

 

“Drift?”

 

The swordsmechs’ optics flickered open. There, as though summoned by his own internal evasiveness, stood Ratchet. Of course.

 

“Why aren’t you at the funeral?” he asked.

 

Drift only shrugged. He couldn’t bring himself to explain properly. “Why aren’t you?”

 

Ratchet frowned. “I don’t like them,” he said. He was quiet a moment before adding, “I don’t like saying goodbye.”

 

Drift pressed his lips together, his spark clenching in its chamber. He sighed. “Me neither,” he murmured.

 

Ratchet reached a hand down, and Drift didn’t have the spark to refuse it. He stood upright with Ratchet’s help, and didn’t resist as the medic laced their fingers together with a frown. “Drift, what is going on?”

 

The clear concern in Ratchet’s tone was the same chord that pulsed through his field and washed over Drift’s plating. Primus, it felt terrible. He felt as though his spark were shrinking of its own accord as he struggled to comprehend the magnitude of this failure. All he could do was shake his helm.

 

Though, selfishly, he couldn’t resist one more thing. Drift lifted his hands, pulling Ratchet close to him and wrapping him in a kiss that was as longing as it was affectionate.

 

He didn’t like saying goodbye either, so this was as good as he could do. And he was thankful that Ratchet indulged him and returned his kisses, though it also made his spark ache. He could feel Ratchet start to pull away, no doubt looking to get more information from him, but Drift clung on tighter. Drift wanted this to last as long as it possibly could.

 

Unfortunately, like most good things — including his service on this ship — it couldn’t last much longer.

 

Once again, things happened as if on cue from his thoughts… except this time it was a comm from Rodimus. The one he’d been waiting for.

 

It was time.

 

He smiled at Ratchet, and even as he did so he knew it had to look as hollow as it felt. The medic frowned harder, his hands now grasping at Drift’s wrists; active worry had replaced the initial concern in his optics. God, it was hard to look at. “Drift — ”

 

Drift slipped his hands away. “I’m being called,” he said. “I have to go.” He turned, his hand hovering over the door control.

 

Rodimus pinged him again. He would have to go — it took enough work to get Rodimus to agree to this course of action in the first place. No reason to give him ammunition to try to talk Drift out of it. After this, he wasn’t sure if he would have the resolve…

 

...the _taste_ of that vision filled the back of his throat and he knew that was a vain thought. “I’m sorry, Ratchet,” he murmured. He activated the panel control and stepped through the door.

 

 

_[reunion]_

 

When he laid optics upon Drift again, Ratchet had planned on — lots of things. Scolding him. Kissing him. Fighting with him. Holding on and never letting go. All at once, perhaps.

 

And yet when they did meet — he’d reached right for a sarcastic remark. Well, who expected anything else from him? Despite his protestations to Ratchet inviting himself along on whatever damn fool mission he’d assigned himself, something about Drift seemed _relieved_ when Ratchet proceeded to pick up the thread of their bickering. There was much less bite in it now, but… well, that had been the case long before Drift had left, hadn’t it?

 

Drift wasn’t the only damn fool hanging around these parts.

 

It couldn’t be this way forever. Sooner or later they would have to talk — about Overlord, about Rodimus, about Autobots, about _them_. About leaving with a kiss and no explanations.

 

But first he could help Drift complete this errand, and he was more than happy to slip comfortably into old habits that fit like a snug pair of gloves.

 

***

 

Things always ended up some sort of complicated adventure with Drift, because of _course_ they did. The only surprising thing here was that Ratchet had been surprised. But at the end of it they had prevailed; they had survived. And they were still together.

 

That was important.

 

Ratchet managed to wait until they got back to the shuttle. They were dirty, dented, and his scanners reported a multitude of non-threatening minor injuries from their encounter with Hellbat, Gigatron, and the stone army. But they were overall whole — and had picked up the ol’ back-and-forth again.

 

There was comfort in the familiarity.

 

But Ratchet fell quiet once they were enclosed in the relative privacy and safety of the shuttle. Drift kept casting uncertain optics his way, glances that spoke volumes of how much he was not ready for any of the expected things to be brought to him just yet.

 

Drift was in luck, because neither was Ratchet.

 

“Drift.” The mech flinched when Ratchet said his name, and that brought him such a sense of wrongness that his spark ached. The medic shuffled forward, pulled Drift’s hands away from the navigation consoles, and let their fingers fit together the way their fields were re-learning to. There was so much he could say, and so much of it had nothing to do with the conversations they would dread, but the words seemed right beyond the touch of his glossa. So instead, with a sigh, Ratchet tugged him close to wrap him in a kiss as he’d daydreamed about.

 

Better late than never.

 

And now that there was this, all hesitation left, replaced by enthusiasm. Drift had thrown his arms around Ratchet and now held him just as close. The swordsmech’s field was so blinding bright with feeling that Ratchet felt breathless twice over — from the incredible corona of his field to the successive, eager kisses Drift chased against his lips long after the first had ended.

 

Or was it long? Time seemed to stand still for these moments.

 

Eventually they parted, gasping and panting and clinging to one another. Ratchet felt his spark spiraling high in a coil of emotions he didn’t care to disentangle at the moment, and he felt the heady rush from Drift’s field so powerful and enmeshed with his own, and he smiled in a way that was extremely rare for him now.

 

Drift smiled back and he looked like an absolute dope, but Ratchet only snorted. “Scrap, kid, I missed you,” he murmured.

 

Drift’s optics brightened as he proceeded to embrace Ratchet close again and twirled them once around. “Missed you too.”

 

 

_[complacence]_

 

Drift had never dreamed it could be like this. But a few weeks alone on a very small shuttle could lend itself to… He frowned. What? Domesticity?

 

Drift snorted a laugh at the thought, but quieted himself when he felt Ratchet stir at his side. Usually they recharged in shifts, but as Drift had found out on his own, there was a whole lot of nothing out on the galactic rim. The computer could auto-navigate around most things so long as it stayed in sync with the sensor arrays. And so their recharge shifts began to overlap, like the steady descent of a satellite into orbit… and more often than not they ended up this way.

 

Not that he would be airing any complaints.

 

In the back of his mind, Drift knew it was _too_ perfect — that they were letting things lie that they normally wouldn’t, because this was such a unique situation. It was their corner of the universe — nothing else needed to touch it. And indulging in this ephemeral slice of perfection was something neither of them could resist.

 

If they didn’t go back…

 

Drift smiled wistfully as he traced a hand over Ratchet’s helm. His fingertips knew every point and curve and divet by now, even on the upgraded frame. That wouldn’t happen. Not only because he’d promised, not only because he needed to see Rodimus again, not only because he _knew_ he had to see this “quest” through — but because of Ratchet. Like many things, the medic wouldn’t admit to how much he considered the _Lost Light_ home, too.

 

The fantasy was still appealing, even for a few seconds at a time. Spending his days like this, only himself and Ratchet to worry about, being even more themselves in the privacy and intimacy a one-man shuttle shared by two provide.

 

But he knew all it was in the end was running away. Again.

 

Drift sighed; the medic stirred again, drawing his attention. Ratchet lifted his helm, one optic peeked open to peer at Drift. “You okay?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You’re over here sighing and snorting and fidgeting — something eatin’ ya?”

 

Drift shook his helm. “Just thinking.”

 

“What about?” he persisted.

 

Drift leaned close and pressed a kiss to Ratchet’s nose, smiling as the medic grumbled and rolled his optics. “What if I said it was you?”

 

“I’d call you a sap.”

 

Drift laughed, but it was Ratchet who pulled him close and into a proper lip-lock. He pressed himself into the contact with eagerness; lazy kisses were an excellent trade-off for these free-floating thoughts that he didn’t know how to corral.

 

 

_[homecoming]_

 

The bridge of the _Lost Light_ was never so beautiful as when there’d been doubt in his mind that he’d ever see it again. Ratchet never cared much for the bridge — he’d been more of a fixture in the medibay or Swerve’s — but it was still something. It was still _good_.

 

They’d won. It felt good. Any slice of home felt good.

 

Rodimus was still running his hands over the captain’s chair like it was a long-lost lover. He relayed the thought to Drift via a private comm and felt another bloom of triumph in his spark as the swordsmech inelegantly covered a laugh.

 

***

 

More than a week passed before Swerve’s was open again. Ratchet had thought it weird, at first, that the crew had boarded up Swerve’s and preferred hanging out at _“Visages”_. When he’d mentioned it to Drift, the mech had made a face and said: “You don’t want to know. Trust me. You’ll find out eventually, but… you don’t want to know.”

 

Being a senior medical officer he, of course, did find out.

 

Drift was right. He hadn’t wanted to know.

 

But after the bar's decontamination, and enough space put between those discoveries, he asked Drift to go with him to the Very Official Grand Re-Opening of Swerve’s. “Not,” he’d added, rolling his optics, “to be confused with the soft opening, hard opening, official re-opening, or the grand-reopening” — all of which had taken place over the past few weeks.

 

Despite the delivery, Drift accepted with that warm smile which had Ratchet's spark on little tugging hooks.

 

***

 

They’d abandoned professional discretion after Rodimus studied their habit of staying over with each other nightly and loudly congratulated Drift on — well, Ratchet stopped paying attention around then. He wasn't really embarrassed. The fact that Rodimus thought any of this was _new_ told Ratchet all he needed to know, anyway.

 

Ratchet was too old to care about anyone else’s opinions and — given the warm buzz of contentment bubbling through his field from Drift’s — the swordsmech enjoyed freely sidling up to his side in the booth. That was enough for him.

 

A fresh second round was in their hands by the time Ratchet slipped an arm around Drift’s waist as he leaned into the mech’s side more.

 

“Huh?” Drift said, looking at him; he’d mistaken the motion for Ratchet leaning in to tell him something.

 

Instead, Ratchet leaned close and pressed a gentle kiss to his parted lips. He felt Drift gasp before leaning into it. And despite the smile on his lips when Ratchet leaned back, Drift still seemed — bemused. “What?” he said. A niggle of doubt presented itself instantly. “Do you prefer I not do that in public?”

 

Drift laughed. “No, no.” He shook his helm, a smile still on his face.

 

“Then _what_?”

 

“I was just thinking how nice it was to be home.”

 

Ratchet swirled the engex in his glass and felt a smile worm itself onto his lips as well. “Me too, kid.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang with me on [twitter!](http://twitter.com/decepticats)


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